You're not a jumper, are you Gene?
by queenoftherandomoneandonly
Summary: A one shot based shortly after series three, episode six. so spoilers! Gene Hunt feels lost. Nothing feels the same anymore. GALEX My first Ashes to Ashes fanfic, so please take that into consideration when Rating/reviewing, thanks :


He sat with his elbows on the desk. A scotch in one hand, the other across his forehead, the very picture of a man in despair. Why did this stuff happen to him? First Keats, then Viv… did he really deserve all that? He was no angel. God, no. He'd been a bit of a twat in the past, but surely not enough to warrant…he'd tried, hadn't he? He'd kept the streets clean. He'd made a fair percentage of criminals shit themselves at the mention of his name. He'd done all he could.

Gene Hunt looked up and surveyed the room before him, watching through the glass as they sat there. His lined face was etched with something like worry, as he drained the whiskey and slammed the glass back down upon the wood, perhaps a little harder than he had intended.

Viv's death had hit them hard. Team members had died before, certainly, (Well let's face it: This was CID, not the pissing girl guides,) but none had had an effect like his had. They were quiet, subdued; each looked in his or her own little world as he laid his eyes upon each of them: Shaz, lost in thought, was absent mindedly stirring her tea with a half dissolved garibaldi. Ray sat with his head in his hands, staring straight ahead. He had been like that now for some time. Chris occupied his usual position, looking gormless (well, at least something felt right)

And then there was Alex.

Bloody Keats. He was trying to take them away from him. He could see it a mile off. What Gene wouldn't give to kick the shit out of that smug little face. If coppers like Hunt really were a dying breed, and Keats was the copper of the future…well God help us all. He'd thought the country was buggered when Thatcher took over. This would be the final nail in Britain's coffin. If it weren't for Keats, Viv might still be with them. Gene knew what he had seen.

She listened to him as well! Gene could have coped with Keats just being there, but what really got on his tits was the immovable fact that she bloody listened to him. He saw it in the way she looked at him sometimes. Half-glances out of the corner of her eye told him all he needed to know. Gene Hunt was a lot of things, but he was not a bastard murderer! It hurt him like a physical pain to know that thought had even crossed her mind.

"Un-bloody-breakable. Unbreakable my arse. It takes one pencil pushing twat to tell her so and she suddenly thinks I'm Adolf Hitler." Gene spoke aloud, though the room was quite empty other than himself. He gave a derisive snort as his poured another scotch. "And to think I…"

"Man the fort lads, be back in a bit"

Gene swept across the room and through the double doors. He walked without direction of purpose, down corridors, upstairs, through more doors, past the gents. At last, his feet naturally carried him out onto the roof, where he blinked in the bright sunshine, surprised at the contrast between inside and the open air. Gene felt different here. Here, there were no walls, no scotch, no Bolly, no desks, no fags, just Gene Hunt, a slight breeze and a view of London to boot. Here he felt freer than he had in almost a decade.

He walked to where stone appeared to meet sky. Stepping up on the ledge, he looked out, his toes just over the edge of the building. Above him were rolling clouds set against the light blue sky, spreading infinitely, drifting serenely as he watched. Below him was Fenchurch, grey, dull and concrete. The streets he worked his fingers to the bone for crisscrossed beneath him. People went about their business, unaware of his gaze. A little girl on Lamb Street continued to pester Mummy for a sherbet dib-dab, a man walked his dog and an old woman sat on a park bench eating a cheese and piccalilli sandwich, all none the wiser to the man watching them from a-far.

Each were but a tiny dot to him. Did any of them really matter? Was there any point in him protecting them? Were they even worth it? Could they make a difference, really? Could Gene Hunt single handedly hold back the tide of filth that threatened to engulf them? He was only one man. In the end, had he really made any difference? Had his life meant anything at all in the grand scheme of things?

"You gonna do it or what?"

Gene whipped round, almost overbalancing, to locate the source of the sound. Jim Keats leant against the stairs, arms folded, watching Gene with a mixture of curiosity and malice.

"Yeah, you'd love that, wouldn't you?" said Gene.

"More than anything," Keats hissed.

"Push me then, Keats."

"Push-?"

"Push me, you soft bastard."

Keats laughed as a sneer curled around his lips. "I won't have to, will I Gene? I've got a funny feeling you'll save me the bother." Gene didn't answer, but continued to study the roads below. "Oh, and I was chatting with Alex before," Keats continued "We got chatting about Sam Tyler, and, do you know, she's very interested in him. Now isn't that funny?" Gene stayed silent, although the hairs stood up on the back of his neck, a sign he had since learned he was ready for a fight. "Come on then Hunt, jump…"

"Guv?" A new voice, female this time, reached Gene's ears, "What's going on?"

"Not much Bolls," said Gene, his voice constricting slightly. "I'm just having a lovely chat with DCI Keats here." Alex moved slowly towards Gene:

"Why don't you come down off that ledge Gene?" said Alex, carefully, edging towards him.

"Yeah, you're not a jumper, are you Gene?" Mocked Keats.

"Sod off, you!" Alex shot back. Keats gave a cruel smile before skulking off again, back down the stairs.

"Gene?"

"Yeah?"

"You gonna come down?" Gene did not answer, again staring down at the streets. Alex made a snap decision. Climbing up beside him, she took her hand in his. "If you jump, then I do, right?" Gene looked at her:

"Is this your psychology bollocks?"

"Nope. You jump, I jump."

"Who say's I'm jumping?"

"You're not jumping?"

"Nah. Not today. There's a bottle of Scotch I 'aint opened yet at home. Nice stuff, got it fer Christmas."

"Is that an invitation?"

"If you want it to be." Grunted Hunt

"Well why not then?" Gene smiled, and very slowly stepped down off the ledge, Alex following suit.

"What d'yeh say we knock of early-eh?" He said, with a slight jerk of his head.

"Sounds good to me."


End file.
